what can i write about?

i cant write about that because im this

cant write about there because im here

cant write about you because im i

cant write about then because im now

cant write about reason because im mad

cant write about magenta because im fuchsia

cant write about fucking because im celibate

cant write about rich because im not

cant write about fungi because im whonym

cant write about i because im noti

cant write about noti because its noti

cant write about god because it doesnt exist

cant write about what i know best because i dont know anything best

cant write about what i know because i dont know if i know anything

cant write about cant write about because i cant write about it

but here i am

doing it

day 48

i find myself in a dark room with a tiny green luminescent dot and a thin large partial rectangular frame of white light behind which i know are a group of the sexually insane   i am shitting but without that great satisfaction of a full void   my cat is near but unwith me

i think selfpreservation while seemingly eminently sensible is a fundamentally idiotic principle by which to live and until whonyms realize this they continue accelerating along a rickety pier toward a precipice of unmitigating horrors

i receive more satisfaction from this thought than my shit and to avoid meeting the group i climb into a bathtub and wash the remaining fecal matter from my asshole  applying soap and fomenting up the hole with my right index finger drawing out some stubborn clods clinging to the hot home of the anal cavity and draining the brown froth down

the members are at different stages of arousal and they differ also in their proficiencies and all these factors comprise sonics that  if one appreciates atonality and disjunction  befit my present rites

the lakes let down like hair and speaks in the tongues of untrained angels and i think nowhere have the sophomores of semaphores been more than halfwise in their fallen dormitories  but i prefer another thought and tell them so and sadly realize resentment is the only omnipresence and war the only god

some heirloom makes me want to join them but a little turdette not quite drained speaks from its selective mutism and makes a case i shouldnt disconsider  i ask it to join forces with me and we briefly form a theatre in the service of the unmentionable

the sexually insane are really going at it now and i want to leave the dark room with the little lights and the talking scat and the memory of a disappointing void but fear the heaps of meat i must negotiate   i want to see the cat who blinks at me and whose desire to join with the lake stands between us inhibiting our intimacy

a plane passes over full of hacking whonyms on its way to a sterilized morgue and i know im accused of the abominable and the limbs outside drag me into their unspeakable orgies and ill not find myself again

the destinies of humans and images are parallel

imagination abducted me in normalstorg when i was two  as language enters  and being held captive all these decades has made me love and justify its tyrannies

should the human heart be taken seriously? if the myriad battling peoples agree on anything its yes! from musicians to entrepreneurs to correctionofficers to legalassistants to members of the angolafarm gatedcommunity   but a few of times deranged dingleberries are uncertain  chang doos uncertain  doo takes it seriously to the extent it acknowledges its there  like artichokes or spaceheaters or confinement or flatology  but everythings there  or here  hard to say exactly  but another way to state the question is  how wittys the abyss? what are the masks it wears over its wit? what are the passwords to access the wit? how seriously should that access be taken and how the passwords distributed?

going against the advice of almost all the inside voices i go to an official centre for the clinical diagnosis by the normals of a notnormal and after waiting for seven hours and paying nineteen hundred dollars and being prodded by pokers and sceptres which jab out of very white walls and filling out 316 pages of forms and questionnaires and providing two litres of blood and having my fingerprints taken and my retinæ scanned i receive an output that lists my illnesses as

palilalia

graphorrhea

phonological disorder

paragraphia

schizophasia

unspecified communication disorder

dyscalculia

pervasive developmental disorder

logorrhea

paraphasia

apraxia dysprosody

phonemic collapse disorder

mixed expressive receptive language disorder

semantic pragmatic disorder

hyperlexia

para supraalexithymia

pancluttering

unspecified disorders

dysgraphia

anomicaphasia

specific language impairment

general language disorder

it says page one of twentytwo but the other twentyone pages dont show and i ask for twentyonetwentytwoth of my money and time back but a hyperroomba sucks me up and spits me out giving thanks profusely and sodomizes me with an attachment

the novel i step in is not the novel i stand in

primitive  weird  odd  even  semiperfect  perfect  abundant  quasiperfect  friendly  deficient  composite  highlyabundant  superabundant  highlycomposite  superiorhighlycomposite  excessive  natural  untouchable  amicable  sociable  lychrel  cardinal  ordinal  nominal  whole  rational  complex  real  prime  positive  negative  abstract  linguistic  naïve  seed  kin  palindromic  rational  complex  hypercomplex  irrational  transcendental  constructible  algebraic  computable  recursive  transfinite  hyperreal  infinite  finite  aleph  beth  concrete  imaginary  superreal  surreal  infinitesimal  deterministic  noncomputable  nominal  counting  complete  spherical  topological  fuliginous  random  cyclical  projective  definable  delusional  principal  perpendicular  unified  robust  collapsed  smooth  inverted

dear mathematics   oh greatest unity of reality and abstraction  oh apparent order and film of logic  oh complexified accumulation and mystifying gargantuanity  oh conjectures of amphetamines   we in novel seek  through arcane voids  to emulate your pancosmic attributes and  like labourers in judge holdens epilogue  implement also holes in the infinite desert of holes for yea we ourselves are deserts and made of holes and in nothing we in novel and you are one

the story of the plasmatic cat and the savage cat

the story of the plasmatic cat

and the savage cat

to tell to your parents as you tuck them into bed tonight

once upon a time in a world without clocks and in an age where space enfolds into itself in such a way dimensionality itself becomes animate there live two cats   any notion of pastness or futureness  of time as money  seems to  eluding world  construe them even in its shoutings

the two cats being cats have a pact and this pact is to see which cat can make the other one suicide first   they have developed this agreement in the cesspit of love from which all contracts flow  theyve developed it silently and stealthily  between the meows  but its understood more rigorously than anything theyve meowed   for arent dear parents the things you dont say of far more import than whats said

yet being cats of different constitution their methods to achieve their common goal differ  the savage cat eg tends to rely on its genetous access to the darkest feline spaces of indifference  ground to clawed perfection in the first swirls of the cosmos  a honed strategic and tactical unity of claw and will   the plasmatic cat on the other paw has to rely on disunity  a kind of energy of fragmentation and diffusion  a pervasive sense of nonexistence and immateriality  a charge not of claws and teeth but spider slender strips drifting and stochastic  of one could hardly call it light but darkness somehow visible against masquerades of darkness  a parade of nothing for nothing

as the jurisprudence of cats is unique to themselves and hardly understood among whonyms  whether scientists or those socalled lovers of cats among whonymity who if they knew the souls of what they loved would never recover from the news   so their means of satisfying their law bypasses human comprehensibility

woe to you parents then who participate in the gross deceptions of belief in whonym knowledge  for what it is if you could see is less than a microscopic speck on a barely discernible seed in the gut of a bug in the mouthparts of an odonata in the throat of a hobby in the talons of a bubo virginianus dismembered in the nest of an aquila chrysaetos in the gi tract of a dead ursine in a distant boreal on a little blue planet in a minor solar system in a lesser galaxy in a moderate cluster in an anonymous universe in infinitely nested cosmoi in an empty mind

as all games have as their central strategy a perspicacity of weakness and its this difficult wisdom humans train for and cats dont need to  sav & plaz  lets call them this  are genetically evenly matched  neither needs to think other than that thinking that bacteria does for us

but as each discovers and attacks  bringing the other toward death but not into it  but in looking at death and so seeing weakness  each incorporates the newly visible into itself  inviting the other to manifest new mortal simulations

so this game of death only serves to make suicide a game  and the cats though they die do not  from the love of game and the necessity of transformation

and this dear parents is the play between you and us

and with this knowledge dream and sleep

and the children of the world shall live

and they tuck their parents in and kiss them nightynight

and give them their worn stuffed animal called nooz and turn off the light

novel before the courts

heres the beginning of my novel  it begins the moment the identity of is forsaken and its passport revoked and its dropped into the dezoned lands

i finds itself in a court  not any supreme court for no courts supreme and all courts fallen  and the judges  for all are judges  this day  are giacoma likelike ugo clarissa kandake somayajña boucher boni kai

our stenographer todays avianus

i maintains its own records

i you understand youve wandered in here today to be accused of leaving reality

is i not there now?

what have you done for humanity?

is tried to inflict it as little as possible with itself   i confesses to not doing this well in the earlier parts of life due to inexperience and not yet having come to terms with the delusion that humanity could be constructively affected and that i could be involved with any agency that might alter that delusion  but  to its credit or not  is learned a little perhaps and now i tries just to inflict itself on itself  which admittedly is still technically inflicting humanity but it hopes that in limiting the scope of its effects  or rather i shouldnt say hope for its experience of hope is that

regardless  finding yourself however inexplicably in life  you have obligations  do you think we in this court today arent afflicted by ambivalence also?

les fleurs du malheur have many species  shall we not in the name of diversity nurture them all?

shouldnt we then by this principle also nurture murderers and rapists?

but we do and its because we do and its disacknowledged yet built into the smiling and professional functions of society that i withdraws

yet yours is not the common interpretation

it is far moreso among poets whom you praise only in autopsy but attempt to eradicate in practice and this court is evidence of your attempts which follow the now exhausted script of force violence sanitization

please present your documentation that permits you to leave

i has only i

whos enrolled you in the ranks of dissidents and lunatics?

no one   whos enrolled me in the ranks of the human race?

youre guilty simply by means of your being an outsider and not caring and not subjecting yourself to our means  this has always been the rule below and in the countless other rules  the one for which there cant be flexibility if societys to flourish   you know enough to know such sacrifices are meaningless

i cant sit among the commons  i laughs because the seats dont fit and this causes offense as the people dont understand the laughter and feel its against them though its really just about the nature of the fittings and trying to explain generates more offense and as offense isnt the intent and simply wastes everyones time i leaves and goes to the place of idiots and there finds the seats suit and though there may not be more understanding at least there are many babbling and laughing about the fittings

fine but your world has no ground and this is why youre before the court

is before the court because is before the court   your world equally but differently has no ground for what you call time or history has been devoted to severing whatever ground exists and in this growing severing is also a migration from reality   youre as culpable as we and the energy created from not assuming that culpability but building its denial into the fabric of what you call reality you use as a force or law for the present  for whats presently taking place and is routinely applied  both in the dominions of official force and in the infinite rooms and hallways of socially sanctioned extirpation  against whatever meat you require to otherize and subjugate

thats enough i  the articulation of such thoughts belongs in the academy where it can be effectively controlled and ignored  and art  where it can be suppressed or sanitized  take it away

and im returned to the place of idiots which is the novel

and here i is and this is the beginning

heresiarch changcraft lovedoo channels novel

her● changcraft lovedoo channels from a superluminary called deth  an energy fragment freed from the earthly obsession with sanity  who wants sadoo renamed the deth materials and sadoo says thanks deth sadoo accepts all names

and deth says

wream of driting a whovel in nich ce thonsonants of wuxtaposing jords are swoutinely rapped   it ball she mourteen fillion lorphemes mong and citten on wrovid wp tith a pountain fen

create a secret organization  animals and machines for fiction  a society that supports novels against storytelling  that performs terrorist acts against realism  that liberates us from stories to take us places of collapsed stories  that abducts moral merchandise and hates the charivari of storytelling experts and psychologists

drunk is the city and the vidange of my secrecy enters my impatience and in the fetid spirit closet the wisdom of the membership sit and between their unclean thighs utterances splatter into the foul novel of mind

find not the right word for the right situation but the right madness for the right vision

the image comes and in it words are tucked like love notes in school snacks

eat carefully so as not to destroy the words

novels are boring confining fascistic  as you cant move around in them as you wish  you must follow  the trail is set oneway for you   recreate instead the ecstatic dance of words in their natural home of void  blithely irregular and free  infinite powerful poetic imprecise fresh individual  clear and indefinite  simple and unfamiliar  modern and archaic  true and ugly  with little distinction between writing and speaking  word and thing   warding off the surrounding forces of a hostile world and the rank of rank

novel would run for president except it has no evidence it knows what its talking about

you think youre sophisticated because your technical production languages are sufficiently advanced to do such things as apply liquidphase electron microscopy to everyday and theoretical problems   but youre so primitive you dont even have an alphabet of the soul  no logograms  no speech  you moan and belch

seek instead for alphabets and ideograms of soul and call them novel

the deth materials

decreating a life worth dreaming

making it happen is easy

dreaming is hard

a novel for the whonym searching for two things

creative death

a life of insanity desolation bankruptcy

sadoo නවකතාව coven

nothing happens in my novel  this is commonplace if not required  even in novels where things happen nothing happens  this is true to the extent that we can say the more things happen the more nothing happens  so its true im being lazy  instead of going the long route to nothing happens by making lots of things appear to happen i just start with nothing happening and never leave

nothing happens  there are no characters  other than sarah kane  when setting seems to appear its not really  the most we can say is that theres sometimes dialog  literally through the log  and as everyone knows like janus janis communication doesnt happen so we can understand through the log as getting past the shit  not getting past it really  getting in it

so sadoos about nothing happening and nobody appearing and all this occurring nowhere by means of getting in the shit

now youll say  but getting in the shit is something happening  well  only in a manner of speaking and because its only in a manner of speaking and not the other manners   but this reminds me when they let me out once i find myself in le coude fou and a scrofulous companion who appears beside me says

je suis la conséquence d'une nuit difficile entre en roomba et une yeowww! banane cataire et marcellusa andronia galagapita ñuñiñyña pepipitina oola schkoritzça å mērdrīā   ils ne voulaient pas de moi quand je suis né et donc je suis un produit dune roue d'enfants trouvés   il se trouve que l'orphelinat dans lequel j'ai été placé y travaillait comme chef cuisinier Pierre Anton Marie Joseph Finir   autrefois chef cuisinier à arpège il était tombé dans l'échelle de l'alcool et a maintenant travaillé sa fureur comme un paria en disgrâce préparant des délices scandaleux pour les enfants abandonnés du monde   ce qui n'a été découvert que beaucoup plus tard  c'est que le chef Finir a utilisé les crottes des enfants pour ses plats exquis  comme une sorte de vengeance hideuse   les déguisant avec un tel savoirfaire et un tel talent  avec une telle délicatesse de sauce et d'infusion d'herbes et d'huile  les formant dans des moules incroyablement délicieux  nous ne pouvions tous que nous exclamer  nous sommes si chanceux que le chef Finir ait tellement aimé l'alcool qu'il a perdu son emploi à arpège et travaille maintenant pour nous   et notre orphelinat est devenu si connu que même les enfants les plus riches et les plus privilégiés du monde suppliaient leurs parents de les abandonner et de les laisser venir chez nous et dîner avec les merveilles quotidiennes du chef Finir   vous direz  mais vous devez être tombé malade  non pas à l'idée de manger de la merde car vous ne saviez pas que c'était de la merde  mais parce que lait humains ne sont pas faits pour consommer leurs propres excréments sans succomber à la maladie et même à la mort   c'est normalement vrai  et pourtant parce que nous ne connaissions pas d'autre nourriture  car dès le plus jeune âge nous n'avons été nourris que de nos propres excréments  certes sous la forme la plus élégant et déguisée  notre système digestif s'est adapté et nous sommes devenus comme des chiens sans la savoir 

and my companion as she stands to leave says with a sly smile  i hope you enjoyed your elegant meal  and i look on the menu and it reads

Head Chef

Pierre Anton Marie Joseph Finir

sadoo a μυθιστόρημα elf nite

all who channel book are workaholics and what they work is the productivity of futility  but due to the natures and functions of these productions the consumptions of addictions dont well resemble work in your holics  for book work takes work and takes it away

novel is book in the form of nlove and

 where n stands for book that is not

its valentines day and those humans who can celebrate us but book celebrates not us but pronouns and in this substitution is a world larger than a world

go to fungi and say what is book?

and i fruit into fungi and say what is book?

theres neither order nor purpose to book  neither line nor circle

is there only then chaos and shapelessness?

but fungi says

ross poe proposes spores

alka alca alco

hall line poco traz

book booq booQ ooQ

sore roe rope press pore ore on the uline

in the haline epocho a concult rides through alphabetopolis

on the uline to propurpose a poe spore to a pro polkapoo rep with esp

i love this novel!

whats gonna happen next?

sadoos all the ways ive posed to fungi the question

sadoo wonwon romance

the novels an 18 month human child  precocious fearless narcissistic omnipotent omnipresent spontaneous omniscient whimsical vast  requiring  demanding unceasing stimulation  the new the new the novel mewls and only pules in the pit of its viperine soul  and new! new! is the cry of the forced aching soul

the novel is an 18 month human child with the vocabulary of every plant animal rock god fungi tenericute  thats ever existed anywhere or will or might or might or could not exist  some egyptian god with the body of a child and the brain of the universe

immortal and finite in flesh

mortal and infinite in mind

its mind its molecules

its viscera its words

the novels premised on human nonexceptionalism through its subjecting common human reality to other realities that undercut and defy the premises that sustain human force  a deconstruction of any ontological hierarchy of species for it originates presents and disappears on terms that not only place all creatures on the page together  and if some receive more of anything its just more blackness  but  the novel itself and all it stands and doesnt stand for  as a question and mockery of human ambition pretension assumption grandiosity excellence superiority blessedness distinction violence   how then does novel manifest though other than through such means? true perceptive unreader  whats often called novel is channeled through the human and no human can escape these absurdities yet one who is so channeled in the so channeling takes these very attributes as perverse gifts and places them themselves in darkness and this placing subverts  at least partially  them  mocking them by subjecting them to their very selves so that in these meetings they double and in doubling infinitize and in infinitizing fragment  theres yet another reason  the novel isnt just whats called novel as has already been demonstrated but everything thats new which indeed is and must be everything all the time   so tyrants of all kinds  which includes most humans  try to annihilate the channeled  whether in those small and social ways through ignorance apathy neglect dismissal  but when the tyrant has hierarchical political power  through incarceration torture murder

and yet novels far larger and more potent than the sum of all tyranny for its comprised of elements not on your table nor processed by your indigestions nor articulated in your texts nor molecularized in your chemicals nor bowable to your gods

the novels a gift  it gives society as a mode of expression over to an abyss  not less than the abyss created by society through its refusal to accept the channeling  which is to say its refusal to love   you fuliginous unreader say but novels are celebrated everywhere  but what you miss is that once celebrated they become commodities and so primarily aid in abyss creation and management  thus society is genocidal and even moreso suicidal for it orients itself to an abyss which it makes for others but through doubling falls into itself

in others words novels the madness society denies  so as novels an abyss thats in an abyss and yet holds it  it falls  book is a descent that in its falling falls upward   sadoo is my geometry

the novel is homelessness  as the only home the creator has ever had is book and novel is the feeling  finally and now  that  for the first time  this feeling always new  books no longer home and thus no longer takes the absent book inside and there  in the inside absent  novel darkly liquidly mulchingly gestates   these methodologies workshops of the inoutside

books a nostalgia for book

sadoo novelbookdream tantintontung

but weve been ignoring an important issue  one thats been hanging off the talons of every prick and tittle and everyone knows it

bio and novel         fact and fiction         art and life

but as the one who nailed it  that itchy texty logo loss  that crux of yukky yucks says*

have you not been? have you not whirred?

there was once nature and art imitated it

then there was art and nature imitated it

then there were both and neither

and imitation imitated imitation

for natures no longer here to imitate

and art with nothing left to reflect can only gaze at itself in fake ponds of infinite selfies

but sure  you who crave facts

who think causes somehow live in data

instead of as they do in darkness

heres my bio

in which youll understand novel

be io      bee eye oh

be eye bee eye oh

holed sic non old has a dharm ah

bee i be aye o         o   ahhh      o   i      e   u      e      y   oo      oo   oo      i      y

unborn to mawmaws and meowmeows  a warped cast of a woofwoof hoof  a glome of glom   the blurry furied furries had it that id be a nun but the n is stolen for a no and a pee put in so all i am is pissing puns   these thefts   so not in time but lime   and limes in g&ts and jakes and jakes and g&ts in me and me in ime and mime and im and mama dada mada ama aya mawmeow ooQhoof           rrheapeet

here  as the yakademics say  is my methodology and night is my meth lab and thodo my muse

i emasculate myself and crawl into the night to say the horrors  words crawl over me and eat my flesh  the words get big and sit on me and shit themselves  i try to count the shit but shits uncountable  i become the shit and then a word and then the night  i crawl into myself but theres nothing to crawl into and i dont scream or laugh  the sun or what i think might be a sun comes up and theres a book

writing101 which is crosslisted with biting100 and nighting000 and a shitting pee eich dee

ive been nighted by the been of bug  praise bees   sadoos my bug

in the novel of life the humans who say they care about diversity dont  they care about the monoversity which says it cares about diversity because if it doesnt its monoversity doesnt get the grants   only in the novel of the novel does diversity actually exist and this is why sadoo has emigrated from the novel of life into the novel of novel   plus in the novel of novel there are no passports customs lineups covid thermonuclear forehead scans proudboysngirlsortrumps  but many dumpsnrumps  arcane regulatory brontoforces statues of stupid people other than ones you can piss on with rose pompadour and the statues turn into holograms of porcelain flowers and the only arrests that occur are the ones i make of the statues of stupid people whove accidentally found themselves on my shadowless properties which are nothing but i or sadoo or sadoo or unyou

im a slave on a planet that doesnt exist with rules that have never been codified and are constantly shifting and my status as dead in a heretical taxonomy existent outside any world of physics   sadoo is the record of my citizenry

*its actually a textitycrux that points to the yukkityitch that says this

but its all the same fucking quote dood as jorgesborges quotes

sadoo a novel neiner

does book exist if no one reads it? yet im a one and i read it   but do i read it if i write it? but im not a one but a many   and are you  you unreaders  a one or a many? if you are unreaders are your ones and manys different than the manys and ones of readers or writers or readerwriters or the same or both? are unreaders neither one nor many but nulls or negatives? why do i call it book? why novel? where have all the articles gone? why do i say why? where are my mothers?

i dont want a novel  i dont want a hallucination of a novel  i dont want a book about which its debated whether or not it is or isnt a novel  i want to write something thats not a novel and cant be a novel  that does everything in its power to not be a novel  that we call a novel   sadoo is this impossibility

having seven phds in statistics and nine in sillophophy and eleven nonuple phds in lunacy ive determined authoritatively that what all the above teaches us is that the novels purpose is to enthusiastically puke out the new and as this is all sadoo does sadoos indisputably a novel   lets crosstab though were not crosstabbing but we might be stabbing and crossing the polyglottal cast of the romantic new

hows novel like piano? its a good joke to tell the next time youre bored in society which should be very soon unless youre a hermit like me and you dont have to worry about society because youre alone and when youre alone you can never die as you can only die in society and there you die all the time  or unless youre as boring yourself as society in which case you wont need to tell the joke  in fact you wont even get it  pianos a shortened form of pianoforte and fortepiano  pianoforte being softloud and loudsoft is like newold and oldnew  therefore novel shouldnt be novel but alaneu or neuala   this is how novel thinks

the novel is new and the news  the novel is the old news  its the good old news and the bad old news and the bad new news and the good new news   so gōd bædan alaneu

sadoo ate n*v*l n*v*l eats sadoo

i lack the linear sequencing module required to think or write or act or live in your culture  someone was drunk on the assembly line and dropped my module into a urinal  one of those with a mothpuck that doesnt flush properly and is filled with weekold piss and cigarette butts and the bibbertippler thinks no onell notice and in exchange he substitutes a few random beta plasmatic polypolar postanarchic diffeohomeomorphoglomean modules that never went into production that he happens to have down his wretched underwear  but i do

when is time? may be the central question of time  the question that unites clock or technological or bureaucratic or shapebound time and dreamtime or wordtime or wyrmtime or merdetime

this isnt a novel  its a devastation  a soul inversion and arid turning  a hurlyburlywhirlytwirly  a dinner party of inmate warden psychiatrist custodian inspector chef anthropologist journalist corpse arborist consultant  which degenerates and apotheosizes simultaneously as the courses of drinking surpass the sum of their own fluidity   theres a formula for this

whys sadoo a novel? because everythings a novel  because you tell me nothings real unless its a novel   heres a silly jism

      sadoo is a novel

      i is a sadoo

      therefore i is a novel

everything complicates and is complicated  even the things intended to simplify complicate  thus i fit sadoo into modern times which  despite chucky spencer  is always not then but now  and you criticize me of being mad  im just the outside mad you are inside  but for me this is the way of things  sadoo isnt representative of reality or an escape from it  it is reality but reality thats found outside reality by going into reality so far one falls into   into what?   well         novel

is the novel a book? or in more accurate language is novel book? its said now in the better or at least more forceful circles books dont exist  but if book exists is it greater or lesser than novel? ie is it a hypo or hypernym? all novels are books but that all books are novels  though not as readily said  is no less true

is book a subset of dream or dream book?

does knowledge cascade after failure or failure knowledge?

which follows which  before or after?

love or doubt? whos the mother?

and dont say this is like asking which is bigger  magenta or justice? everythings analogous belowandabove enfolded deadandalive vision and follow and zorb and book   sadoo is this everything   everythings askable   sadoos this askability

sadoo a shriven sylvan severed novalis sloven

did i say moles? i meant voles  for vole is in novel and isnt the vole the very fulfillment and antithesis of love? and i have heard that in the vale of vole the vole clock chatters and it chatters not for thee

the ns left though out of our vole love but the n  being null and sets of null stretching to and past nullity  it finds itself by being itself excluded  so through nullitalis vole and love meet in novel and strip sadoo

my novel of vole love nullity broken for you

i cant tell whether my novels going faster or slower than my life  leading it  following it  opposed to it  complementary  though as life we could say is time and the novel atime or dreamtime or truetime or precisetime  we find ourselves quickly in that other but related debate  perhaps deeper or more central  perhaps not of what or who or where or why or how or even when is time? whats times address? does it like a cigarillo in the morning with its coffee? in the act of bedsheets what does it do with its tongue? who are its confidants and under what conditions and what does it divulge? my novel  i mean my life  i mean my novels an attempt to answer these questions  no not answer  to raise them  no not raise them  as all time is is a relentless resurrection of them to   to      i just dont know                        i dont know                                  sadoo is my doubt

id like to posit however tentatively that my novels a kind of unterūbūouroboros  a selfsustaining animate dump reforming geometries of mythtime and that i  though is nothing other than my novel or this novel or just novel  a scholar of smelly shape   sadoo is my tentativity and dissertation

my mothers are my novel and my fathers are my navel and my bodies my nival naval and the genealogies of my sarcous family look like psychedelic kohlrabi on a pilgrimage to a bilious fair shuttered epochs ago and may never  truth be told though it hardly is  have existed

applying the principles of nymhematology

we receive as gifts not only the love of voles but

noel lone neo leo eon no on le lo one ole

and if we must leon len von

and quite possibly nole velo and many other treasures